


And a Happy Nude Year

by notapepper



Series: Kiss-mas Verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (sort of), 5 Times, 5x+1, Banter, Bickering, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Comedy, Creative Insults, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, Long-Distance Relationship, Moving In Together, New Year's Eve, Partial Nudity, Sexual Tension, Swearing, Twelfth Night/Epiphany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/pseuds/notapepper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Fitz saw some skin, and one time they both did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday, December 24

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> This is a sequel to my 2014 FitzSimmons Secret Santa exchange fic, [A Kiss-mas Story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2816009/chapters/6317567), and it picks up pretty much immediately where it left off, so you may want to read that one first.
> 
> This is also a belated Christmas present for my beta [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/) who gifted me this [gorgeous manip](http://memorizingthedigitsofpi.tumblr.com/post/135881019362). I’d been thinking about writing a sequel to my mistletoe fic for a long time, but her picture gave me the ~~exploded ovaries~~ inspiration I needed to actually do it, so thank you Pi!

_Zero new notifications._

Fitz stared at his computer screen and sighed.  Barely twelve hours since he’d said his goodbyes to Jemma at the train station, and she’d be busy with her family all evening, so he couldn’t even call.  How in the _Hell_ was he going to get through the next month?

His mouse hovered over the header on her Facebook page, telling himself it wasn’t creepy to be checking up on her like this. _I’m her best friend._  It only made sense that he would be interested in her life and browsing her social media accounts.   _The_ **_creepy_ ** _thing would be if I was smothering her by texting her fifty times a day when I’ve just seen her this morning._

No, he was just making sure she was safe.  And happy.  That was all he ever wanted for her, really.  Safe and happy.  Maybe with a side of “dating Fitz” if he _really_ got greedy.

Well, greedy he must be, because this year he’d gotten everything he could possibly ask for, yet here he was, in front of his laptop, miserable and pining and increasingly frustrated with the internet speed at his mum’s house.

“Leo!  The fairy lights’re out again!”

“Okay, mum!” he called out, wondering if enough chores could possibly drown out the memories of the previous night, Jemma stretched out against him, kissing him, waking up with her draped over him like some sort of sexy _sloth_ , for Pete’s sake—

“Leo, my boy, did ye do the potatoes?  Soup’s already boilin’!”

“Yeah, I will!” he repeated loudly, resigning himself to the prospect of not hearing from Jemma until at least the next day.

“I should hope ye didna fly all this way just t’ sit in yer room by yerself!  Come have a catchup, it’s been a donkey’s age!”

A small blue-and-white bubble popped up at the top of the screen.   _Jemma Simmons_ _was tagged in_ _Jules Simmons ’ _ _photo._

“Just a minute!”

Fitz’s head snapped up, his fingers tapping against the wood of his desk as he waited for the image in question to come into view.  The slow page refresh nearly gave him hives as it loaded, bar by infinitesimal bar, to reveal a cheerily tipsy Jemma: flushed cheeks, head thrown back in three-quarters profile and her face contorted in what was either an oncoming sneeze or an explosive reaction to a joke.  He waited, patiently, for the pale line of her neck, traveling down to the thin strap of her sleeveless blouse… his breath hitched… the creamy expanse of her arm, exposed by the loose fit of a navy blue hoodie— _hold on, is that_ **_my_ ** _zip-up?_ —slipping down as she giggled.   _God_ , she was pretty.

“Leopold!” bellowed Lorna Fitz.  “Unless yer hidin’ a Christmas goose an’ all the trimmings in that bedroom o’ yours, ye best get in this kitchen an’ _help yer old mam_ —”

The picture chose that moment to freeze, pixelated and completely unsympathetic to his needs.  With a groan, Fitz dragged his palms over his face and attempted to put on a modicum of Christmas cheer.  “Sorry, mum!”  He pushed open the door and sauntered out into the family room, resolving to push the incomplete image of his gorgeous new (he hoped) girlfriend out of his head.   “Oh, ta, mum, is that mulled wine?”

Smiling broadly, she handed him a goblet, with a pinch to his cheek and something about how tall he’d gotten.

Fitz grinned.  “I know you’re just sayin’ that so I’ll change the lightbulbs, but everyone I work with is some sort of half-giant, so I’ll take it.”

“Ach, well I _should_ be havin’ m’ tall grandchildren change the lights for me…"  Lorna’s eyes twinkled with the familiar topic of discussion.  "But seein’ as you’ve never seen fit t’—” 

Fitz groaned, right on cue.  “Mum, good _grief_ , I’m not even old enough to _drink_ in the States!”

She settled her hands on her hips.  “Rory McGregor down the road’s the same age, and he’s got two on the way!”

Fitz flung up his arms.  “Rory McGregor’s idea of a _career_ is gettin’ into barfights and calling it professional boxing!”

“And how’s that stoppin’ him keepin’ his mother happy?!”  With a smug nod, she turned to the table and started grating carrots.

Bemused, Fitz got out the potato peeler, settled himself on a stool, and set his glass within easy reach.  

 _  
Chores and drinking._  That, at least, was a solid plan.


	2. Tuesday, December 25

 

“Merry Christmas, Simmons.”  Fitz hung up the phone, allowing about 0.8 seconds to pass before kicking himself.   _Simmons?  Gah._  It’d been force of habit, of course, nothing more, but he couldn’t help worrying that now she’d think he was freaking out about their change in status.  Which, he’d noticed casually in passing, hadn’t been updated on her social media yet.  Not that he was bothered about that.   _Because that would be creepy._

The question now was, did he call back?  Should he text?  Instant message?  Send an owl?   _Oh, sure, capital idea._  He’d just get right on that.  

To ~~my dear Jemma~~

~~my girlfriend~~

~~the most capable, beautiful, safety-conscious~~

~~Jemma Elizabeth Simmons~~

_Wait._  Now Fitz was starting to sweat.  What was Jemma’s middle name?  He could’ve sworn it was Elizabeth.  But was it Louise? _Oh, fuck._  What if it was Catherine?   _Rose?_  Those options were _nothing_ alike!  

Here he’d been panicking over stuffily addressing her by her surname; wait til she found out he didn’t even know her _full_ name!  Fitz dropped his head into his hands, moaning in despair.  Should he _ask_ ?  Surely this wouldn’t come up, not for a long while, anyway.  It had never been an issue _before_ … and why did anyone need to know anybody’s middle name, anyway?   _Am I going to steal her identity?_  Not bloody likely.  

 _Jemma would know yours_ , whispered his scumbag brain.  Oh, baby Jesus’ holy nappie, what if he needed to get something engraved?  Who could he ask—her parents?   _Good God, no._  They’d think he wanted to propose!  Did he _want_ to propose?  Oh, sweet Mary, what if Jemma engraved _him_ an _engagement ring_ and he was supposed to—

His phone pinged with a new text.  Fitz nearly dropped his phone in his haste to open it.

[From Jemma (13:16 PM)  Just about to take the family Christmas card photo]

[From Jemma (13:16 PM)  How’s my hair? ;-) ]

As the picture popped into being on his phone screen, Fitz’s jaw dropped at the sight of a smirking Jemma, casually brushing a hand through her curls while she leaned forward to snap a shot of herself in the mirror.  The diffuse light of her bathroom made her look even more like a goddess than usual, and the deep red hue of her sweater, shot through with gold thread, conspired with her lips to set off dainty freckles and sparkling maple eyes.  But it was the unintentional tilt of her torso that had him feeling like a pervy schoolboy sneaking a copy of the Littlewoods catalog just to peek at brassieres.  Because Jemma’s sweater-dress was soft and drapey, and did some sort of plungey-thing at the neck, and with the way she was leaning over her bathroom counter, he was going to have a very happy Christmas indeed.

Fitz was suddenly glad that he’d stepped _outside_ to call Jemma, as the snowy Scottish breeze became a welcome ally in the stalwart task of calming him down enough for polite company, or at least enough to walk back into the house with his mum.  He stared at the photo, buffeted by heady sense memories of those same breasts soft against his shirt, fully appreciated but never seen.  Mentally, he counted down the days until they’d both be Stateside again, wanting her in his space, needing her voice in his ear, infuriating and intoxicating him all at once.

He got his wish a tad unexpectedly when the phone buzzed in his hand.  “Jemma?” he squeaked, wishing puberty hadn’t decided to pay him a surprise visit just then. _At least I got the right name._

“So?  You never answered.  Do I look alright?”  Her voice was suspiciously guileless, the smile in her tone sneaking through.

“Ah… yeah, you look.”   _Sexy as fuck._  “Erm, y’know.”   _Like a goddamn deity, all oyster shells and cresting waves and long hair covering the good bits._  “Festive?” he managed.

“Festive…”  The sweet voice from before was faltering into dubiousness.

“Good festive!  Like a really _posh_ Christmas ornament.”  Fitz rubbed the back of his neck, willing the snow to just cover him up already.

“Oh.”  Thank God, now she just sounded like she was laughing at him.  “Thank you?”

“Yep.  Any time.”  He praised the icy heavens that if his mum were to drag him inside, she’d likely mistake his blush for frostbite.  “Oh, and Jemma?”

“Mmm?”

“If it’s not too much trouble…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll take a copy of that Christmas card.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, I don't believe we have a middle name for either of them, but I tried to work in the ones I've seen the most. Let me know if you can settle it definitively!
> 
> Jemma's selfie was inspired by atomicsupervillainess. Thanks, doll!


	3. Monday, December 31

Fitz dragged off his dusty work glove and flexed his fingers, willing the feeling back into them.  It wasn’t the cold this time—well, it was, it was _always_ the cold—but a full morning of rearranging and stacking boxes in their small storage shed had left his hands cramped and sore.   _That’s gonna make it tough to wank_ , trumpeted his gleeful scumbag brain.  Jesus, he was such a prat.  Is this what it was like in Victorian times?  Bunch of arseholes walkin’ around with half a stiffy because they saw an unsocked ankle?

He’d never _thought_ of himself as a pervert before getting that selfie from Jemma.  But then, he reasoned, most perverts probably didn’t see themselves as all that disgusting.  Still, he’d always been an intellectual prodigy, never too socially active, and he’d somehow fancied himself _above_ such base urges.  He rolled his eyes at himself.   _Fucking hubris._  

It had quickly become obvious that his lecherous side had simply been laying in wait, biding its time under a bridge or a dumpster (or some other appropriately filthy place) until it could jump out and troll the right girl.  Jemma—kind, clever Jemma, with her nice smells and her soft round bits and her friendly hair—doubtlessly deserved better than _his_ fumbling attentions, but as far as Fitz was concerned, only God could help her now.   And she didn’t believe in Him anyway.

His mother’s call jolted him from his musings (even a minute of silence was enough to send her voice a-questing).  “Are ye finished there, son?  Mrs. Connolly wants us at seven for the Hogmanay party, and we’ve still got t’ make the clootie dumpling!”

“Nearly done, mum!”  He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, pushing up his beanie and feeling the old grit of dried sweat under the wool.  Hefting the last two boxes up into his arms, he exhaled with a grunt, lifting them up over shoulder level onto the shelf.  In his haste, his elbow dislodged an open-topped bin, which shifted dangerously out over the lip of steel edge.  Fitz slammed a hand into the side to keep it upright, pushing it farther back, and he almost didn’t notice the small, white-backed square that fluttered down to land near his feet.

It was an old shot one of their classmates had taken the year before, just after they’d successfully passed the practical exam for _Tactical Improvisation 301_ .  Ever the queen of over-preparedness, Jemma’d made him sign up for the elective with her (some James Bond rubbish offered by the Spec-Ops school) claiming they’d need to hone their superspy skills if they ever wound up in the field.  Fitz, for his part, had wanted to take kung fu, but Jemma’d seemed dead set on being able to MacGyver her way out of any situation, and if he was being honest, it _had_ been rather fun to learn all the different ways to make a shiv.

The assessment had involved disarming an underwater bomb (Jemma’d gloated for _days_ when she turned out to be the better swimmer) so, really, it made sense for them to be wet in the photo… it wasn’t as if he didn’t _remember_ the particulars of the exam… it was more that Fitz had never stopped to _notice_ that detail.  Certainly not the way such a detail _deserved_ to be noticed.

Jemma stood next to him with her usual sunlight smile, arm stretched up around his shoulder, damp hair sticking to her cheek where it’d escaped her ponytail.  Her SHIELD-issued sweatpants, their dripping weight nearly too much for the measly drawstring at her hips, hung temptingly low, and her standard gray T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to her chest like a second skin.  The tuck of her waist peeked out at him from under her raised arm, almost like someone’d thrown clothes on the world’s sexiest guitar, and he’d never felt attracted to a musical instrument before and _good Lord Almighty_ what the fuck was he _doing._  

“Leo!  Did ye still want me t’ press your trousers before we go?”

The only person he wanted pressing on any _part_ of his trousers was Jemma.  With a harsh huff, Fitz pushed his beanie the rest of the way off his head glared at it accusingly.   _Stupid hat._

“Clock's tickin', lad!  What’re y’ doin’?”

 _Get it_ **_together_** _, you fucking dolphin._ “Nothing, mum, I’ve just put up the last one!”

“Well then come an’ help me with the bread crumbs, and we’ll have a nice piece of pie, eh?”

Fitz sighed. More like _he_ needed help with the bread crumbs.

Of his _self control_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wiggles fingers tantalizingly*  
> From here on out the chapters get a bit longer, and include more FitzSimmons interaction! Hope you guys are still liking the thing!


	4. Sunday, January 6

 

 

“Bloody _finally_ ,” Fitz muttered, connecting the last cable before wriggling out on his stomach from under the old rolltop desk.  “Sorted, mum, now you’ll be able to watch those episodes you missed,” he announced grandly.   _Best son ever._

“Y’ mean _we’ll_ be able to watch, Leo.  I know y’ love my stories even more ’n I do,” Lorna teased.  “Only way I could get ye to put m’ telly back together, d’ you remember, love?”

Fitz hid his blush with a chuckle.  “Pffft.  The shows were alright, I s’pose, but I’m _pretty sure_ I was mostly there for the ginger biscuits.”

“‘Course ye were, dear.”  She nodded sagely.  “Big strong fellow like my Leo’d never be interested in tales of romance and betrayal, aye?”  She held out a tin of the aforementioned biscuits.  “So _speakin’_ of romance, Bonnie Martin’s back from university…”

Fitz’s groan made its reappearance.  “Argh, give over, mum!”  The shift in topic had reminded him that he still needed to check Jemma’s Facebook status, now that he had proper working Internet.  No matter _how_ flirty some of their recent texts had gotten, he certainly wasn’t going to out Jemma to his mother until he was damn sure of how _she_ felt.

“I’m not sayin’ ye have to bring a nice girl home,” Lorna kept on, putting a few biscuits on a plate.  “I’d be just as happy t’ meet yer boyfriend, y’know…”

 _Good grief._  She must’ve been talking to the ladies at the beauty parlor again.  “Mum, that’s not—”

“I know ye think I’m an old stick-in-the-mud, but the world’s changin’, son, and I can’t see as there’s any harm in lovin’ who y’ love—”

“Okay, great, good to hear!”   _Ceiling tiles._  Who knew there were so many ceiling tiles?

“So if y’ ever need t’ tell me somethin’—”

“You’ll be the first to know!” he cried out, desperately grabbing a gingersnap and stuffing it in his mouth in the vain hope he wouldn’t have to answer any questions.

“And if y’ need any advice on how t’ land yerself a good one, I’m sure I remember a thing or two from my wilder days… yer father, rest his soul, wasn’t the first young man to find a spot on my dance card.  Why, I once met a _very_ strapping—”

“Gah, mum!” he grumbled, mouth full, swallowing before she could scold him about his table manners.  “Could we _not_ talk about your dating history?”

“Hah!” she cackled in triumph.  “Suits me, dear, let’s talk about yours!”

-o-

 

“Oh!  Oh, it worked!”  

Though Fitz was tempted to grouse about poor screen resolution and choppy frame rates, the happiness in Jemma’s voice—and more importantly, the fact that he could now _see_ her—was enough to make the last two weeks entirely worthwhile.

“Ah, well, yeah,” he puffed up his shoulders.  “Genius, you know.”

Jemma grinned.  “I _do_ appreciate your genius.  Especially when paired with a new router,” she teased.  

“Mm-hmm.  I’ll have you know, that router didn’t install itself.”  He crossed his arms and took her in, adorably rumpled in a baggy jumper— **_another_ ** _one? manky thief_ —snuggled under a quilt with her laptop on her crossed knees.  “Wasn’t exactly easy.”

“No, it couldn’t have been,” she agreed, blinking innocently, “judging by how long it took.”

“Hey, you—”  He waved an index finger at the screen, feeling almost nostalgically relieved at finally being able to bicker with her face-to-face.  “The post is _always_ slow at the holidays, and there was a malfunctioning part—”

Her tinkling laugh rang out, filling his chest with candy floss.  “Fitz,” she sighed.  “I’ve missed your face.”

He ducked his head, inordinately pleased.  “Yeah?”

“I have.  Pasty and all.”

“Hmmph.”  He narrowed his eyes, not a stitch of malice in it.  “Big talk from someone the color of an uncooked pot-sticker.”  At her affronted expression, he chuckled.  “Okay, yeah.  I may have missed your face too.”  He put his fingers half an inch apart.  “Wee bit.”  

“Oh _really_?”  She raised an eyebrow.  “Just my face?”

 _Barnacles_.  The last thing he needed was for Jemma to think all he cared about was her appearance.  “Course not!  Not that your face isn’t— I mean, it’s _very_ — but your _brain_ , and—” _What_ _else?_ “—your, erm, sandwiches…” he ended lamely.

Going from her eyeroll, he guessed that wasn’t what she was hoping to hear.  And while he would have gladly given it a bit more thought, just then Jemma moved the laptop to the side.  

“Hang on a tick, the telly’s too loud.”

Which was code for her sister trying to eavesdrop.  Within moments, Jemma’d flung her quilt off her legs and hopped off the bed to go close her door.

 _Legs._  He’d thought his brain was already full to the brim with Jemma—well, his “other” brain must’ve made some room, because now his memory banks included her legs, pale peach and perfect, bracketed on either end by _his_ jumper and a pair of thick woolen socks.   _Holy shit._

He cleared his throat.  “Er…”   _Say something normal, you blighter._  “Aren’t you cold?”   _Good enough._

Her cheeks dimpled with affection.  “That’s sweet, but these leggings are actually quite thick, and I’m sure you recall how cozy this jumper is,” she grinned.

 _Leggings.  Right._  He exhaled hard, his mind going straight to a film reel of what her nude legs might _actually_ look like, and started thinking up ways to upgrade the video quality for next time.  “Cozier with you in it,” he declared suavely, and _what was that snort for, I can be smooth if I please._  “But, erm, you’re staying busy?”

Her nose scrunched.  “Somewhat.  John and Jules have been spending quite a lot of their free time with friends from school.  Still, it’s been nice to see Mum and Dad.”  She reached across her bedside table and brought back a large mug, cradling it in both hands.  “How’s your mum?”

“Same old battleaxe.  Happy I’m home, keeps trying to fatten me up, the usual.”

“Steady diet of potato waffles?  Doing all your laundry for you?”

“I wash my _own_ laundry now, thank you very much.”

“I should hope so; it’ll come in useful when we’re living—”

“—living together.”  And there it was.  They were taking so many _huge_ steps together, in their work, in their living arrangements, in their relationship—and as chuffed as he was about it, he wouldn’t blame her if she just wanted to take a step _back._

He’d felt confident, that night before Christmas Eve (Christmas Adam? _Not the time, Fitz_ ) but leaving her so soon after having started… _this_ … he had to admit, it was making him go a bit spare.  He was so used to being in her space, reading her body language, that having to rely solely on texts and emails and the occasional photo was driving him flat batty—because without her _there_ , where he could _touch_ her, react to her, he’d have to use his _words_.  And even a wall-eyed cavefish could see neither of them were exactly tops at putting a name to their feelings.   _No wonder she doesn’t want to define things._

It was a minute before he realized Jemma was waiting for him to respond to something she'd said, biting her lip as she twisted her fingers into her jumper sleeves.   _And now I’m not even listening to her.  Brilliant._

“Come again?”

She faltered.  “Well, it does seem a rather blatant excuse to meet you, but Jules occasionally drives farther for work, and she _did_ offer.”

Meet him?   _What the Hell did I miss?_  Fitz’s mouth flapped open like a cheap calendar, but Jemma carried on talking, her voice going higher and faster as she spoke.

“And I’d _certainly_ hate for you to go this whole time without your favorite mug!” she tittered oddly, holding up the unfamiliar-looking cup she was drinking from.  Fitz squinted and leaned closer to the screen, feeling at sixes and sevens with the entire conversation.

“That’s…”  Her face fell.  “I’m not serious, of course, I know it’s not your favorite mug, especially seeing as you left it behind in John’s car, I just—”

 _Oh, ruddy fuck._  He now recognized it as one of the souvenirs they’d bought at Covent Garden.  

“No!  I want it!”  A memento of their first proper snog, and he’d managed to forget it in a _car_.  “Thanks for finding that, Jemma, honest.”

She fidgeted.  “You’re quite welcome…”  She took a breath.  “And, it’s fine.”  She pulled a hair tie off her wrist and put her tousled hair up into a ponytail, talking all the while.  “It’s silly, really, when we’ll see each other in a fortnight anyway, and I’m sure you’ve got things planned with your mum.”

“No!  What?  What are you talking about?”   _Bollocking Bo Peep’s sheep, of all the times to get distracted from a conversation!_  Because it almost sounded like she was volunteering to come for a visit, and—

“Leo?”  His mother poked her head in the door, holding two steaming glasses of wassail.  

“Mum, look who it is!”  Fitz turned the laptop around.  “It’s Jemma!  Mum, tell Jemma we don’t have any plans!”

“Och, so it is!”  Lorna brightened immediately.  “Let me get a look at ye, hen.”  She shuffled into his room and gripped the computer screen intensely.  “My, well aren’t you a picture.  You’re too thin, though, the pair of you,” she clucked.  “Once ye get settled in America, I’m sendin’ you both yer own box of shortbread.”  Lorna tipped the laptop as if it were nodding back at her.  “That’ll sort y’ out, dear.”

 

Fitz thought privately that, from the peeks he’d gotten so far, Jemma’s body was bloody _perfect_ , but he wasn’t about to say no to free shortbread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of December 23 being "Christmas Adam" is from a joke I saw floating around on tumblr, but a brief Google search tells me the term's been around for a while. Huh. #tmyk


	5. Friday, January 11

 

Fitz loved his mother.  It was important that he remind himself, at the moment, because while he loved his mother _in general,_ he didn’t _specifically_ love her _right now_.

“But that Ninth Doctor!  Those big ears,” Lorna giggled, leaning over the arm of the loveseat to gesture at Jemma and her sister on the couch.  “I like something to hold onto when I’m goin’ in for a snog, if you take my meaning?”

“Mum, there’s only one way you could mean that,” Fitz whined from his spot next to her, and wished not for the first time that he’d been more proactive about the seating arrangements.  His mind kept drifting to all the possible things he could be doing to Jemma under a blanket at this very moment, if his mum hadn’t plopped down at his side.  Which, of course, really wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to be thinking about around their respective families.  

If only Jemma would stop being so bloody _sexy_ , every movement setting loose a dozen scenarios in his imagination—the top of her ankle running up the back of her calf, inching up her trouser leg… the small sliver of her lower back pulling at him like a magnet when she reached across the coffee table for a piece of cake… her fingers trailing delicately behind her ear when she smoothed back her hair.

He sighed in frustration.  Really, he should just kiss her—he should just walk over there, wedge himself in next to Jemma on the couch, and kiss her, since honestly, if he had _his_ way, he’d be kissing her in front of their families for a very long time.

 _Right.  Because Jemma wants to be mouth-mauled in front of your catcalling mother._  And while Jules seemed nice enough, he doubted she’d appreciate them going full caveman less than two feet away, either.  

Jemma set down her sherry trifle, licking clean the spoon with a small moan of satisfaction.   _Sweet chocolate-covered Christ._ Fitz kept his eyes on the telly and ground his teeth so hard the whole room might hear.

Perhaps he could suggest a nice stroll?   _At half nine… at night… in the dead of winter._  With a dejected huff, he picked at his blanket and adjusted the bowl of crisps in his lap.  

“Leopold, if ye cannae stop fidgetin’ then give yer hands somethin’ useful t’ do and rub yer ol’ mam’s tired feet.”

That did it. _Libido controlled.  Thanks, mum._  “Christ Almighty,” he coughed, scandalized.  “We’ve _company_ , mum!”

“What’s that, Leo?”  Lorna winked over at Jemma and Jules, eyes crinkling as she hammed it up.  “My hearin’ must be goin’ because I thought I just caught a whiff o’ _blasphemy_ from ye, but then I told meself, _Now Lorna_ , ye’ve raised that boy better than fer him ta take the Lord’s name in vain…”

Fitz’s eyes went round and he lowered his voice urgently.  “Mum, do you _really_ think this is the best time for a footrub!”  His head swam with images of his mother’s tough heels and dry arches.   _Yep._  Definitely no problem controlling himself anymore.  

“Listen t’ the little prince!  Remind me, how many years did I spend bathin’ ye n’ wipin’ yer bum?”  She harrumphed with no little drama.  “And now yer all the way off in America… growin’ thinner every day…”  She sighed expansively.  “While I’m sat here, not knowin’ if yer sleepin’ enough, waitin’ every day for a word from my only son…”

“Oh for Chri—”  Fitz turned to the girls, hands thrown helplessly up.  Jemma was biting her lip in cringing sympathy; Jules, for her part, appeared merrily fascinated by the spectacle.  “I send you emails, mum.”

“Och, speakin’ ta me in that _impertinent_ tone…”

“Arrgh, what _tone_ , I just—”  He was never going to live this down.   _And in front of Jemma’s sister, no less!_

“An’ when I think back to what a sweet lad y’ were— oh, Jemma dear, did I show you the photo book?  There’s a few snapshots in there from my cousin Connor’s weddin’.  Leo was just a tyke, proud as y’ please in his wee kilt!  Aye, it was a sight.”  

“That sounds amazing, Mrs. Fitz!  We’d _love_ to see the pictures.”

Well, that was that.  He could forget any chance of _ever_ seeing Jemma naked, now.

“Now, hen, what did I say about that Mrs. Fitz business?  Call me Lorna.”

To add insult to injury, his mother licked her thumb and reached over to smooth down a curl that had offended her on Fitz’s head, then dropped her legs heavily to the floor and waddled off to find the album.  

There was a distinct mischief in Jemma’s tone when she called, “You know, I’d be happy to scan those photos for you, if you like.”   _Oh, fucking Christ’s nuts on a crabcake._  He could only imagine what his best friend could get up to with that kind of blackmail material.

All of his worries about the damage _Jemma_ could do, however, flew out the window when Lorna came back into the room, guffawing as she flipped through the pages.  “Bless his cottons,” she chuckled, settling between Jemma and Jules and pointing to a taped-up Polaroid.  “Little Leo’d never seen so many grown men in kilts before,” she chortled, “and kept sneakin’ looks ‘atween their legs and askin’ when _his_ was gonna look like that!”

 

-o-

 

With a final glance at his mother’s closed door, Fitz put down the TV remote and leaned over to where Jemma was covering her sister’s sleeping form with a knitted throw.  When he’d caught her eye, he spoke just quietly enough for her to hear.  “Step _only_ where I step.  Got it?”

Her eyebrows went up, but she nodded, standing up to grasp his hand and position herself behind him.

Biting his lip in concentration, Fitz quickly worked out a plan, factoring together the settling of the old house, the pins and needles in his leg, the distraction of Jemma’s warm palm in his.   _Right._  And they were off.  

Feeling quite James Bond about it, he tiptoed gingerly around the creaky floorboards, shuffled past the slippery patch of linoleum, made sure not to stub his toe on the jutting edge of the grandfather clock, stabilized the loose section of doorframe under his stockinged foot, and finally slid into his bedroom.  As soon as Jemma crossed the threshold, he put his finger to his lips and eased the door shut, wincing when the wood squeaked and stuck a bit harder than he’d like.  Finally, he sagged against the door in relief.  

Jemma stood at his side, breathing in quiet puffs.  “That was fun,” she whispered, sidling up to him.  “I felt a bit like Agent Romanoff.”

“Me as well,” he grinned.  “Well, y’know, not— obviously minus the…”  He gestured descriptively at his chest.  “The, ah… catsuit.”

Jemma rolled her eyes.  “Yes, naturally the _catsuit_ is the salient piece of information when speaking about one of SHIELD’s top specialists.  Honestly, Fitz.”  Her brow lifted in a familiar challenge, but her voice held an added, playful note that heartened him greatly.  And anyway, Fitz was _not_ about to squander their first chance at privacy in a goddamn _century_ fighting over some woman’s clothes.

“Sorry,” he murmured, tilting his head down.  “Wasn’t thinking straight.”  His lips brushed against her ear.  “Been sort of distracted all day, come to think of it.”  His hand came up to comb gently through her hair, watching the silky strands slip through his fingers.  “Any idea why that might be?”

“Not the foggiest,” she smirked, tugging him by the hand as she stepped backwards into the room.  “But I might have some thoughts on how to focus your attention.”

“We’ll need to be quiet,” he reiterated under his breath.  “The walls are about as thick as clingfilm and Mum’s a light sleeper.”

Jemma impishly pursed her lips.  “Oh, _I_ was referring to yoga.  What did you think I meant?”

 

-o-

 

The clock on his nightstand read 5:03 a.m. when he felt Jemma attempting to shift out from beneath his covers.  “Wha’?” he asked, groggy.

“I’ve got to get back to the couch,” she whispered.  “Go back to sleep.”

“Nnng,” he protested, snaking out an arm to drag her bodily back into his cocoon of warmth.  “S’cold.”

“I’ve got blankets.  I’ll be fine.”  She dropped a sweet, drowsy peck onto his lips and squirmed out again.

“Jemma…” he pleaded, catching her by the wrist and giving her a look that likely fell in the “street urchin staring into a restaurant window” camp.  

She sat on top of the bedspread, pinning him somewhat, and leaned over for a deeper, slower kiss before pulling back and tracing her thumb along his jaw.  “Just think, in a week we’ll have an entire apartment to ourselves.”

Fitz dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.   _One more week._  “Is it wrong that I hate our families right now?”

“Yes,” she grinned.  “But I feel the same way.”

“Okay,” he relented, kissing her fingertips.  “See you at breakfast.  Oh, here—”  He sat up, pouting.  “At least take my quilt.”  The last thing he wanted was for Jemma to freeze her tits off (especially not before he got a chance to properly see them).

“Fitz, I’m not taking your quilt, that’s ridiculous,” she scolded.  “Although…” she vacillated, a canary-nibbling grin working its way across her face.  “I _wouldn’t_ say no to borrowing an extra jumper.”

 

-o-

 

“So, Jemma,” Lorna began in her scheming voice, and Fitz mentally braced himself.  “I’m sure you’ve tried Leo’s festy cock by now.” _Oh, ha sodding ha, mum._

“I’m sorry?” Jemma squeaked, choking a bit on her orange juice and blinking away tears as she handed the basket of toast over to Jules, who was snorting into her coffee.

“Yes, Jemma!” her sister chimed in.  “Don’t act as if you’ve never had a festy cock!”  She pronounced it _feisty_ , and Fitz rolled his eyes, trying to catch Jemma’s gaze.

“Och, yer in for a treat, hen.  As luck would have it, in the Fitz family—I’m certain I don’t need to tell ye—they’re well good in taste _and_ texture.”

“They’re pancakes, Jemma.”  Fitz bit aggressively into a rasher of bacon.  “And as it’s nowhere near Shrove Tuesday, _mum_ , I’m not sure why you’re bringing that up.”

“Just making conversation, love.”  His mother hid her smile behind her cuppa.  “Allow an old woman the joy of discussin’ her recipes.”

“Hmm.”  Fitz had the strong sense that if they could’ve done it without being obvious, Jules and Lorna would’ve high fived.  He reached over and squeezed Jemma’s hand under the table, mouthing an apology when his mum’s back was turned.

“It’s certainly piled up out there,” Lorna mused, peering through the curtain.  “I only hope ye all found a way t’ stay warm last night.”

Jemma pinched a morsel off of her scone and chewed for what seemed to Fitz like a very long time.

“I was _so_ comfortable, Lorna,” nodded Jules.  “You had a nice kip too, didn’t you Jem?  Hot enough?”

Jemma finally swallowed her bite.  “Quite, thank you!”  She pushed a forkful of eggs around before brightly stabbing at a tomato slice.

“Well, that’s good to hear, loves.  I worry, y’know.”  Lorna took Jemma’s juice glass and went to refill it.  “Leo, you remember where the snow shovels are.”

“Yep, no problem.  I can get to it while they’re packing up the car.”  He chugged the last of his tea, folded his toast and stuffed it in his mouth, and pushed away from the table.  Maybe clearing the drive in subzero weather would ease the flush burning up his cheeks.

“Right!  Busy morning, lots to do!” Jemma cried, tossing down her napkin and shooting him a grateful look.

Fitz’s mother ruffled his hair as he stood, the twinkle back in her eye.  “Ach, will ye look at that?  And all this time, I thought he got his curly hair from me.”

Jemma’s brow creased with confusion.  “He doesn’t?”

Fitz paused, a sinking feeling in his stomach and his mouth still full of bread.   _Jemma, no._

“Well clearly not, lass!” Lorna chuckled, pointing at a mark on his neck.  “Seems the poor boy’s burned himself with a curlin’ iron!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So while I was writing AFTUMS, starbrightnights and I had discussed the probability of Fitz wearing a kilt as an adult and came up with the headcanon that the last time he wore one was as a little tiny pageboy in a wedding, so this is an expansion on that.  
> If you're interested in tiny baby Fitz in a kilt, you should also check out Anytha's fic [Children and Costumes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4800389/chapters/11664610)
> 
> "Festy cock" is, as far as I could gather, a sort of oatmeal pancake shaped like a bird (hence the name) that they make in Scotland for Mardi Gras aka Pancake Tuesday aka Shrove Tuesday aka etc etc etc. I saw the name and given Jemma's love of pancakes, I simply _could not_ resist. :-D I hope it made sense!


	6. Friday, January 18

 

Fitz twisted the last screw into place and called out to where Jemma was unpacking boxes in the kitchen.  “Ready to lift the bookcase?”

“Oh, wonderful!  Thank you, Fitz.”  She scampered out, brushing her hands off on the thighs of her jeans.

Together, they shoved the enormous mahogany shelf into the corner of their new living room, and stepped back to admire it.  “Perfect,” she declared, turning to kiss him squarely on the mouth before going back to her scrutiny.  “Should we have gotten two, do you think?”  Her gaze scanned the boxes stacked up behind the couch, neatly labeled with subheadings for subject and date.  “As it is, we’ll be storing all our textbooks from university in a _closet_.”  Her disgusted moue illustrated her thoughts on people who kept their books out of sight.

“Like a couple of _philistines_.”  He couldn’t resist.  “What’s next, hiding our YA collection because we’re ‘technically’,” he did the air quotes, “ _legal adults_ now?  Pffft.”

“Oh, hush,” she chided, and bent to drag the first box over.  This, of course, gave Fitz a fantastic view of her backside, and revealed that one little place on her hip he’d been dreaming about ever since he found out how ticklish it was.  Within seconds, he felt the entirety of the last month crashing down on him, from the moment she’d waved goodbye in London, to this morning when a flurry of delivery men had interrupted a _highly_ promising snog and Fitz had sworn the bloody cosmos was against them.

“Jemma…” He was going for sultry, and he was pretty sure he managed it.  He picked up a paperback and dangled it in front of him.  “We can get to this tomorrow.”  

She bit her lip in apology, looking up at the new bookcase with longing.  “It’s just, you know how I am once I’ve gotten started.”  She plucked the book back from his hands.  “And as you’re well aware, I have a comprehensi—”

“— _comprehensive system_ , yes, I’m quite familiar with how much you love to organize things.   _B is for blue is for biological_ , remember?”  He grinned.  He’d flirt all night if that’s what she wanted, though naturally he’d set his hopes a bit higher.  “What, you don’t trust me to remember the alphabet?”

She blushed, muttering something about how it was far more complex than that.  “But, um,” she offered sweetly, tracing her finger along the line of his collar.  “Why don’t you go put the bed together?”

 

-o-

 

Fitz ran a hand through his wet hair and adjusted the towel at his waist.  Did he really _need_ to get dressed?  After all, if things went his way… _Right, because all women secretly want a naked, pushy man with a neon sign pointed at his crotch.  Don’t be such an ass-cravat._

That settled, he scooted out into his (their?) new (shared!) bedroom, hunting through his suitcase for a T-shirt and some shorts.

“So that’s finally fini— Oh!”  Jemma breezed in from the living room, halting in her tracks when she spied him.  “Sorry!  I, um, _well_ …”  Her mouth hovered open as a flush crept up her neck.  “This is new.  I suppose we’ll have to get used to this sort of thing, won’t we?”

He squinted, the foremost thought in his mind how vastly unfair it was that _she_ got to see _his_ chest when _he_ was the one who cared about chest-viewing.  

“Should I go?  I’ll just—”  Waving behind her, eyes still locked on his damp torso, she stepped backwards, bumping the wall.  “Let you have a minute.”

The door closed in front of her and a moment later he heard her call breezily through the plywood, “Nicely done on the bedframe, by the way.”

“Er… yeah, thanks.”  He finally spotted a clean undershirt and a pair of boxers.  He dropped his towel and yanked them on.

“Though I hope you didn’t sacrifice construction for speed.”

“Bite your tongue,” he admonished, crossing to the door and pulling it open.  If he’d worked faster than usual, well—he’d been properly motivated, hadn’t he?  He squared his shoulders, letting himself brag (just this once).  “I think you’ll find that the structural integrity of that bed is better than most skyscrapers’.”

“Is _that_ so?”  Oh, the breathy voice was back.   _Good sign, that._  “Perhaps we should test it.”

 _Fantastic sign, even._  “I concur,” he announced with enthusiasm, hoisting her by the waist and spinning around to heave her onto the still-shrinkwrapped mattress.

“Fitz!” she shrieked.  “At least take off the plastic!”

“Nope.  Priorities,” he said, tracking her body hungrily as he flounced down next to her.  He skimmed his fingers under the hem of her shirt, rucking it up here and there, baring glimpses of freckled skin, pinkish-white and kissable as Hell and _Christ on a croissant_ , he hoped she was ticklish _everywhere_ , because he had big plans for all her little spots.

“Fitz,” she started, clutching at his bicep with a quiet sigh.  “I really need to—”

“—stay right here and have a cuddle,” he grinned, mumbling against her collarbone as he nipped through the fabric of her shirt.  “With me, in case that was unclear.”

She stretched out, giving him better access to kiss her throat, and it was only when he started unbuttoning her top that she drew regretfully back, looking up at him through her lashes.  “I’m all dusty and sweaty.”

“Simmons, I swear on Tesla’s grave,” he growled, locking eyes with her. “You could’ve just come back from a cat dissection and I wouldn’t care.”

“Well _I_ do!” she insisted, extricating herself from his arms.  “I’m sorry, maybe it’s silly, but—”  Her nose wrinkled shyly.  “I just want it to be a _little_ special.  Just this first time.”  She leaned over to kiss him gently, letting her fingers drift over his stubble.  “Not when I’m rancid from airports and unpacking and the bed feels like someone baby-proofed it.”

He let out a _whoosh_.  He was really shooting for boyfriend of the year, here, gagging for it so hard that he’d begrudge her a shower so she could feel comfortable.   _Nice going, got any other great ideas?  Gonna send her a dick pic?_  

“No, of course, Jemma, you should— whatever you need.”  He pointed to the large cardboard box against the wall marked _Sheets + Blankets_.  “I’ll just make the bed up properly, shall I?”

“That would be lovely,” she smiled, pecking him on the cheek before rummaging through her own luggage for a few things.  As she was about to disappear into the bathroom, she looked back at him over her shoulder and _oh, that’s what they mean when they say sultry_.

“And I doubt you’ll mind when you see what I’m wearing.”

-o-

 

Fitz ripped through the thin bag that covered the new mattress, vulturing it off like he was stripping a carcass, his head a-whirl with wet dream fodder.  It was almost _definitely_ lingerie.  His mind raced with options.   _Bra and knickers, or would she do something a bit more Dynasty, like a satin teddy?_

He balled up the filmy plastic and stuffed it into the small wastebasket by the desk.   _Another of my jumpers, maybe?_ That could be good.  He’d sexily demand its return, and she’d put on a bit of a show, drawing it up slowly—perhaps he should unearth his iPod?—and then he’d… well, _he_ needed to dress the bed, or none of that was going to happen anyway.

He’d just hooked the fitted sheet over the corner when his eyes went wide.   _Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  What about a catsuit?_ Sure, she’d have needed to borrow one of the tight leather numbers from another SHIELD agent, and as far as he could tell there was no reason for her to have done that before and no chance she could have that day… but he’d learned never to underestimate Jemma.

 _Or you could just let her surprise you, you sex-brained donut._  

He threw a plausible number of pillows up towards the top of the bed, making sure to give Jemma a few spares so she could sit up and work on her laptop later if she wanted.  Then he was smoothing out the creases in the top sheet and blanket, wondering why he needed to bother when they’d be doing their best to mess them up again in a minute.  Last came the puffy coverlet, the same pale blue as their new— _Holy Pope on a rope_ —their new _lab coats_.  His jaw went slack at just the idea.  

Riding on a wave of anticipation, Fitz worked quickly, executing his hospital corners with an eager shimmy.   _Sorted.  What else?_

There was, of course, the issue of his own clothes.  Maybe he could go back to the towel?  No one in the history of the planet ever put on a damp towel and felt happy about it.  And, in fairness, he really didn’t know what Jemma was going to come out in.   _This could all still be an elaborate joke of some kind._

Right.  His boxers could stay on.

 _Condoms!_  He ran to his suitcase once more, delving into it with a singular determination.  He’d endured many a judgy snicker from the customs officials getting those 48 little buggers into the country, and he was bloody well going to make it worth his while.   _Okay._  He took a deep breath.   _Now.  What the Hell is the right amount of condoms to have out?_  It’d be awful to have come all this way only to muck things up by getting presumptuous. _Unless just_ **_having_ ** _condoms is presumptuous already…_ He shook his head.   _Better safe._  That’s what Jemma would say, anyway, and she could hardly fault him for following her own advice.  He grabbed a tasteful stack of two, placed them neatly on the nightstand, and tossed the rest of the box under the bed.

The room didn’t look half bad, to be honest.  After a quick check of the thermostat, Fitz scurried their luggage into the closet, tucked the moving boxes unobtrusively under the windowsill, and surveyed the result with satisfaction.   _Maybe I should put a mint on the pillow._  Surely he had an Altoid or a Tic-Tac or something he could use?  It wouldn’t be individually wrapped, but it was almost certainly the thought that counted.  Though, would she think he was saying she _needed_ a mint?   _Oh, God, do_ **_I_ ** _need a mint?_ Perhaps a scented candle—

 _Time’s up, Casanova._  He heard the shower turn off, and leapt across the floor, rolling onto the bedspread with just enough time to kick it into a rumpled heap as he settled himself against the wall.   _Seductive… seductive… bloody Hell_.  How the _crap_ did men pose?  Should he go under the blanket?  No, _fuck no_ , he’d look like he was waiting for a glass of milk and a story.

He experimented with his hands, putting them on his hips, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, crossing his arms in a classic “power pose” that felt stupid as soon as he tried it.  In frustration, he ran his hands through his hair and decided they were left well enough alone there, stuck behind his head.  Still _quite_ convinced he most closely resembled a women’s bathing suit ad, he searched desperately for something else to give him that bit of edge.   _More manly._  He slouched down—men slouched, right?  especially cool men who didn’t give a rat’s arse—and let his knees drop open.   _Nailed it._  That ought to to make it 100% obvious he wasn’t a lady.

This business of looking laid back was a chore, Fitz thought, particularly when it should have involved one goddamn action.   _Step 1: Recline.  Step 2:  Congratulations, you are now casually unruffled.  Please instruct all ladies still capable of walking to form an orderly queue._

Any further thoughts on the inanity of nonchalance disappeared the second Jemma stepped out of the restroom, because _how could someone that short have such long legs?_

She glanced over him, biting her lip in an indulgent grin, and stepped carefully into the room, pausing in front of him.  With both hands, she stretched the bottom of her T-shirt, pulling it flat, and his eyes went from the jet-propulsion schematics emblazoned on the front (his work was better) to the words printed above and below.

_Aeronautics engineers do it… with just the right amount of thrust._

His eyebrows jumped up his forehead and a barking laugh burst from his throat.   _Fucking brilliant._

“It was either this or _Chemists do it in bonded pairs_ , and that seemed a bit twee for my taste.”  She stood, letting him look his fill, though she twitched under his gaze and her fists clutched tightly at her hem.  “Anyway, it’s yours if you want it.”

He nodded gormlessly, reaching for her hands.   _Whatever_ she was talking about, he wanted it.  Finally, his head cleared enough to stammer out, “Uhhh… if this is how you mean to replace all the shirts you’ve nicked…”  He swallowed, pulling her onto the bed.  “I’d not be opposed to that.”

“You’re easy to please,” she taunted, the familiar smile working its way back.  “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have spent so long deciding what to wear underneath.”

 _Nothing.  Can I pick nothing?_  “Oh, I’m _pretty sure_ I’ve thought about your underwear more than you have.”  

 _Shit.  Shit._  He’d said that aloud, hadn’t he? _Baby Christ on a bike._  “Erm…”  Jemma’s fond grimace wasn’t exactly the look he _wanted_ to put on her face.   _Ah, well.  No way to go but forward._   “Of course, I always _imagined_ them…”  He leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “…on the _floor_.”

 _Genius._ He’d never been so grateful for Jemma’s sense of humor than at that moment.  Her face broke into a pile of giggles peppered with the requisite _ugh, Fitz_ , and she flopped over into the pillow wall while he took the chance to compose himself.

And that’s when he saw it.  Her knickers, which had already been rendered his favorite knickers in the world by virtue of their location, became infinitely more memorable due to the _cartoon monkey_ front and center on the plain cotton background.

“Those,” he breathed out, “are bloody _evil_ , Jemma.”

“Hmm,” she agreed slyly, sitting up to catch his face in her hands.  “I _thought_ you might like them.”

He whimpered, a shrill tangle of scandalized lust.  “I’ll never be able to look at Curious George the same way again!”

Giggling like the little devil she definitely was, Jemma nudged at his shoulder.  “Oh, hush up and give that monkey a banana.”

“Jemma Simmons, you tart!”  He pulled back and stared her down, mock-stern.  “I hope you’re happy, besmirching a childhood classic.”

“I’m very happy at the moment,” she said, cheeky as you please.  “I’m sure I could be happier, though.”

“I’m gettin’ to that.”  He bent forward and started sucking up tiny lovebites underneath her jaw, loving the way she squirmed under his hands.  Her shirt slipped up, and he spread his palms wide over her ribs, just so he could marvel at how they spanned her waist.

“My mum’s right,” he blinked goofily.  “You’re _tiny_.”  He wished it didn’t make him feel _quite_ such a man.  Though he supposed, for all his accomplishments, he _was_ only a man.

Her brow arched.  “Short jokes, Fitz?  Really?”  But a moment later her back arched too, so that was all right.

They lost themselves for a time in the play between touch and taste, finally free to explore the way he’d wanted to for years, if he was being honest.  Eventually, craving the picture of her, he drew away.  Her hair was wild, tiny goosebumps prickling her skin in stark counterpoint to the fever flush powdering her cheeks.  Her kiss-puffed lips shone in invitation, and intellectually he knew that humans needed food to live, but damned if he wouldn’t take that berry-soufflé mouth over a sandwich any day of the week.

“ _Fiiitz…_ ”  She wiggled underneath him, blowing a lock of hair out of her face with a huff.  “Are you stopping?”

“Never,” he promised.  “We’re just getting started.”

-o-

Fitz moved quietly, trying not to wake her.  She’d think he was daft, waking up before her—if nothing else, the sheer size of his coffee mug during their morning classes had always been proof enough that he preferred to lie in.  And, of course, he wasn’t entirely sure she’d be charmed by his creepy staring.

His pencil scratched across the notepad in his hands, his mind filling up once more with images of his naked girlfriend—only this time they were real.  He felt very nearly like clay, or plaster perhaps: having found the perfect shape to mould to, both of them pressing in, melting together and filling in all the spaces between them, he now felt incapable of reassuming his previous form.

Holy grilled Swiss cheeses, he was a sap.   _Right._

_Top marks on the sex, you lucky bastard.  Don’t bollocks it up._

“Fitz?” _Oh, Lord._  He was going to have to start keeping a list of favorite Jemma voices.  Orgasm-voice was, understandably, in first place, but he could see sleepy-voice making a compelling run.  “What are you writing?”

“Nothing to wake up for,” he assured her, flipping the notepad so she could see the pages of equations.  “Wanted to work through some calculations while they were fresh in my head.”

“Oh.”  Her head disappeared back into the pillow, hair splayed out across the linen and her body curling into a lima bean.  “Well, come back,” she grumped, bossily, and he thought that might be his favorite voice yet.  

“Yep, let me just check these figures and I’ll be right there.”

Fitz grabbed his graphing calculator and plugged in the numbers, punch-pleased when the swooping lines and grey-shaded curves looked precisely as he wished.  Dropping his notepad on the desk, he snuck back under the covers to wrap himself around her, kissed her temple, and let the warmth between them lull him back into a doze.

Not far away, the profit of an hour’s trial and error, scores of messy equations sat under neat block-letter headers.   _Shoulder.  Hip.  Waist.  Knee.  Bottom.  Breast._

  
Fitz might not be an artist.  

But, when it came to Jemma, he could do the maths.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering why Fitz is mostly doing chores and building things throughout this fic, it is because I am extremely weak for Handyman!Fitz.
> 
> There's a (very short) epilogue after this because I have a problematic lack of self-control, and that'll post tomorrow.
> 
> Of course, the scene where Fitz "arranges himself pleasingly" on the bed was inspired by my awesome Christmas-gift manip by the inconquerable [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/), who was a phenomenal cheerleader during writing and to whom this fic is dedicated:
> 
> And that's the end! Thanks for reading!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the actual ending in the previous chapter wasn't fluffy enough for you...

“Okay, I’m 98% certain you were joking about the festy cock, so I made you a Scotch egg for breakfast instead.  ‘sides, we haven’t been to the store.”  

Jemma was sitting on the mattress, an unreadable expression on her face.  “Fitz… why would you lie to me?”

He froze in the doorway.  “What?  No!”

She stayed where she was, bouncing slightly as if testing the springs.  “Didn’t realize when we decided to share… that I’d be sleeping on a bed of _lies…_ ”

 _What?_ “Seriously, Jemma, I’m not—”  He cast around desperately, looking back at the kitchen in confusion.  “Okay, _fine_ , it’s just a hardboiled egg, but I made it!  So I should get to call it a Scotch egg if I want!”

“I’m referring to earlier, when you said _this_ —”  She pulled his notepad out from behind her. “—was for _work_.”  

“Now, all right—”  He held up a postponing finger.  “Look, _technically_ , I didn’t say it was _for_ work, I said I was workin’ _on_ it.”

She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes.  “Fitz, are you building a 3-D rendering of my naked body?  Or someone _else’s_?”

“No one’s!  No, you’ve— okay.  It’s like this.”  He rested his hands above his hips and opened his mouth to explain.  No sound came out.

“Hmm?”

“I mean…”  He palmed his fist, twisting his hands together.  “Is that not… romantic?”

“Romantic.  Designing some sort of sex-bot.”

He rubbed his forehead, shading his eyes as he groaned.  “No, obviously _that’s_ not romantic!  Damn, I’m not explaining this very—”  He took a deep breath.  “Listen, I _promise_ , that’s not what I was doing.”

She raised her eyebrows, expectant.

“I just… my _brain_ — when I see _numbers_ , it’s—”

Her face softened slightly.

“It’s a different way of thinking for me.  And I wanted to—”  He frowned, trying to phrase how to say it.  “I _wanted_ … to memorize you, sort of, or take a picture that I could keep forever.”  His hand came up behind his head, scratching at the short hairs there.  “And I’d never— you know, if you _offered_ , sure, but I’d never ask you to _actually_ take a—”  He reddened, glancing over at her a bit pathetically.  “Anyway, I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

Her brow cleared, and she stood.  A curious smile played across her cheeks.  “So… you _drew_ me in your sketchbook using _maths_?”

“Yeah, I _know_ , it was a rubbish thing to do.”

“No, no, shh— but, just to be clear, you pulled a Titanic while I was sleeping?”  Her smile widened.  “Leo Fitz, née DiCaprio?”

“You can stop anytime now, you know,” he grouched.

“Was the light ‘exquisite’?  Did my nubile young body ‘call out’ to you?  Were you so _overcome_ you simply had to ‘capture the moment’?”  She was laughing openly now.  “Only, with a calculator.”  She tilted forward conspiratorially.  “Of course.”

“You’re hilarious, Simmons, you know that?  I’m surprised I haven’t died of a comedy-related lab accident.”

“I’m sorry, Fitz, you’re right: it _was_ romantic.” She walked over to him, draping her arms around his waist, and shook her head with a chuckle.  “Adorable, actually.”

He shot her an unimpressed glower.  “Patronizing.”

“It was!”  Her giggles subsided partway, and she stretched up to kiss his chin.  “Don’t mind me, honestly, I’m just trying to understand _how_ I’m in love with such a _massive nerd_.”

 _In love w—_ “Whuh?”

“You heard me,” she whispered, walking him backwards towards the bed.

 _Oh.  Oh!_  Somehow, Fitz managed a few seconds of elocution in spite of his face-breaking smile.  “Well.”  He cleared his throat.  “In a startling coincidence, I too am in love with a massive nerd.”

“That’s because you’re in love with yourself,” she teased, but she gripped his neck and brought their lips together.  “Now.  In the interest of helping you memorize my physiology…”

His breathing sped up.  “Yeah?”

Her face quirked in a saucy grin.  “Word has it you give an _excellent_ foot rub.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that thing of when you have an idea in your head and you realize you didn't manage to put it in the fic itself yet? That's what happened here. So, *Oprah voice* YOU get an epilogue and YOU get an epilogue and YOU get an epilogue and YOU get an epilogue!
> 
> (Oh yeah and the French is wrong because née is the feminine form? But, since I don't really see né used much in reference to like, a man's maiden name, I figured I'd go with the more recognizable deal. It made sense at the time, LOL.)
> 
> And that's really, really for real, for realz even, the end. Thanks for hangin' out, guys!

**Author's Note:**

> Big additional thanks to my betas [atomicsupervillainess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/) and [amandajoyce118](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amandajoyce118/), and shout-out to [starbrightnights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrightnights/) for always being willing to answer my British-related questions!
> 
> Also, Lorna Fitz in this one is a little less intensely Scottish as she's been in some of my other fics, because there's more of her, and I just couldn't keep up that level of slang and spelling. Still, if you're Scottish and she says something that is just _way_ off, please do let me know! My tumblr is stillnotapepper.
> 
> This fic will be updating daily! Hope you like it! :-D


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